Through the Looking Glass
by MLaw
Summary: A brief view into Illya Kuryakin's mind on a Christmas Eve. Just a bit of silliness. pre-saga


Illya Kuryakin woke to find himself alone in the middle of a forest, laying beneath a tree, and he had no idea how he'd gotten there.

"Where am I?" He wondered aloud.

The echo of a voice startled him. "That depends a good deal on where you want to get to."'

Illya spun in place, trying to find its source. "Who are you, show yourself."

"Certainly," the voice crooned.

In the tree above the Russians head, a smile appeared out of thin air, followed by a pair of green eyes and little by little a brown tweed-ish looking cats head and finally a body attached to it.

"Oh bother, I've forgotten my tail," the puss said until the last of his appendages appeared. "Mmmm yes quite, much better indeed."

The creature seemed to be floating in the tree and not laying on any particular branch. There was something oddly familiar about it, as it had bushy eyebrows, and held a briar pipe in its paw. The cat put it to his mouth, inhaling deeply until he released several large smoke rings in the air that floating above his head like a halo.

Illya got a whiff of the tobacco and suddenly sneezed. He hit the side of his head a few times, hoping it might clear his vision. "A Cheshire Cat? Impossible," he blurted out, wondering what sort of drug THRUSH had surely injected him with.

"Impossible you say, yet here I am, as it were."

"Or it might have been some bad gruel that I ate, " the Russian muttered, suddenly recalling it was Christmas Eve and a bowl of oatmeal he'd made. "Wait, is not the caterpillar the one who blows the smoke rings?" He asked.

"You're getting your stories mixed up, the gruel... that's from Dickens, you know the one with the three ghosts and Scrooge...takes place on Christmas Eve as I recall. And let's not mention that insipid caterpillar Beldon, he has the most peculiar and licentious habits."

"I know which story is which, but Beldon? No he does not belong. Now what is the reason I am hallucinating you?" Illya demanded.

"Who says I'm a hallucination dear chap?" The cat began to purr rather loudly.

"Well then be of some good and tell me how to get out of here?" Illya craned his neck, looking up at the cat as it continued to float in mid-air.

"As I said, it depends on where you want to get to," the cat continued to purr.

"Are there any people who live nearby?"

"That way, the cat pointed , "lives a man who thinks he's Napoleon and is as mad as a Hatter, now that way, lives a man who think he's a bird...some sort of a Thrush as I recall, and he's equally mad as the other fellow. So no matter which way you turn, you'll be among madmen."

"But I don't want to be around anyone who is mad," Illya remarked.

"I don't think that can be helped dear chap," said the cat, "we're all quite mad here. I'm mad. You're mad too."

"I am not mad," Illya insisted.

"Oh there's no doubt that you are. You must be," said the cat, "or you wouldn't be talking to me."

Illya didn't see any logic in that at all. "And how is it you know you are mad then?"

"You know dogs aren't mad, don't you?" The cat asked as it slowly faded out of view, leaving only a smile.

"Will you stop doing that."

"Doing what dear fellow?" It purred to him.

Illya waved his hand in annoyance. "Coming and going like that. Stop fading away if you please."

"Very well then," the cat harumphed. "So do you agree that dogs aren't mad?"

"What is the saying?" Illya countered, "Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun."

"That only applies when in India dear fellow."

"All right," Illya surrendered, "So what is your point?"

"So given dogs are not mad, except in India perhaps...my point is that dogs growl when they are angry."

"Yes yes I know, and they wag their tails when happy, by the way I neither like or trust dogs," Illya said.

"Then that must be why you are talking to me, a cat. As you see I growl when pleased and wag my tail when miffed, proof that that I'm not a dog, and therefore you must like me."

"You are not growling, you are purring...and what has that to do with you being mad?"

"I beg to differ sir, I know what I'm doing and it's growling and, therefore, I know I'm quite mad, and it's not due to age, though everyone keeps referring to me as the Old Man. Hmmm, I think this affair is nearly finished. Now be off with you, and get a haircut, it's not regulation length. Dismissed," the cat gave a wave of his paw and disappeared completely this time.

Illya shook off his confusion and decided to wander in the direction the cat indicated where Napoleon was. The oddly colored flora, moved as if it had mind of its own, vines undulated and moved, reaching across from one tree to another as he walked through the surreal surroundings. He presumed it was a drug-induced haze. There was a distracting buzz buzz of insects flying at him, though they were seemingly invisible as tried to swat them away with his hand. Illya continued walking until he reached a clearing where he found his partner sitting at a long table, dressed rather oddly with a top hat on his head.

"Napoleon?"

He looked up at the Russian with an inane grin. "Oh you must be Alice? Come join me for tea."

"Am Illya not Alice," he snapped."Napoleon what is wrong with you? We need to get out of this place before we do really become mad."

"Well I was told Alice was blonde and you're blond so you, therefore, must be she."

Illya rolled his eyes, watching Napoleon jump to another chair, lifting a teapot from the table and pouring a second cup of tea.

"One lump or two?" He held a sugar cube up with a pair of tongs. "Oh no that's wrong, you like raspberry jam in your tea don't you? La-dee-dah." He began humming "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town."

The air was suddenly filled with the sound of purring that grew painfully in volume. Illya covered his ears with his hands, falling to his knees as it became unbearable. He collapsed, feeling a terrible weight on his chest asl he drifted into unconsciousness on a soft a pile of leaves.

.

"Illya, wake up sleepy head, you're going to snore right through Christmas," Napoleon called."Your tea is ready."

The Russian's eyes popped open, blinking several times until they focused, finding a pair of feline eyes staring straight at him. It was Lucky, Mr. Waverly's cat.* He suddenly remembered volunteering to watch after the not so little black and white feline while the Waverly's were on holiday in England.

The doorbell was still going buzz buzz as Napoleon walked over with the cup of tea, setting it down on the coffee table. He'd come over to keep his partner company rather than leaving him alone on Christmas Eve, and had found him half asleep on the sofa.

The cupboards were bare as was often the case with the Russian, and there was a half eaten bowl of what looked like oatmeal sitting on the kitchen counter, and now the delivery order of Chinese food from Chang's had just arrived for their pseudo Christmas feast.

Napoleon opened the door, paid for the food and brought it to the dining room table

Illya ran his fingers through his hair, sending it into wild spikes, as it was getting too long. "I had the strangest dream, I was stuck in..." He suddenly spotted a top hat sitting bedside the bag of food that Napoleon was unpacking.

"What is _that _doing here?" He stared at a top hat, his eyes wide with surprise.

"I ordered food for us. Illya, you have to start keeping something ediible in besides oatmeal. I mean, come on?"

"Not that, the the thing on the table," the Russian pointed, stuttering accusingly.

"Oh that?" Napoleon picked it up, placing the hat on his head, flicking it with his finger.

"I wanted to air it out as I have a very formal date with Miss Constance Witherby of the South Hampton Witherbys. I'm to escort her to a formal Christmas ball tomorrow with the theme being 'Alice in Wonderland...actually Winterland," of all things. I'm going dressed as a well-tailored 'Mad Hatter'...Illya, why are you looking at me so strangely?"

Kuryakin ignored the question. "I think I will have a vodka instead of tea," the Russian rose, heading straight to the kitchen, leaving his partner completely bewildered.

"_Tovarisch_, did that lousy oatmeal you ate do something to you...not have any ghostly visits did you, after all it's Christmas Eve?"Napoleon jokingly called after him.

"No, no ghosts," Illya mumbled, holding the cold bottle of vodka to his forehead before pouring himself a tall one...

.

* ref "Lucky."


End file.
